


knit one, purl two

by mardisoir



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Knitting, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Mutual Pining, bad metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-20 19:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13724169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardisoir/pseuds/mardisoir
Summary: Enjolras brings his knitting everywhere. He knits at meetings, on the metro, on his lunch breaks, yarn trailing in bread crumbs. He’s knitted as long as Grantaire has known him, to the point where it’s barely a remarkable personality trait any more. It’s just another interesting quirk in a group of interesting and quirky people; Combeferre collects taxidermy, Bahorel has failed the bar five times, Joly always has the best weed, Enjolras likes to knit.~Enjolras fully believes in “the knitters curse” and refuses to give Grantaire any form of a knitted object he made even though he’s given all his other friends plenty of his creationsGrantaire just thinks it’s because Enjolras doesn’t consider him a friend.





	knit one, purl two

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely inspired by a tumblr post by grantaire-the-drunken-artist

To say that Grantaire is startled when Enjolras appears at his table that evening would be an understatement. Even more alarming than his unexpected presence are the sharp metal knitting needles sticking out of his bag, which are precisely at eye level when Grantaire turns to face him.

“You know, there are kinder ways to kill me.”

Enjolras frowns down at him, arms folded. “Courfeyrac said something to me just now.”

“Okay,” Grantaire eyes the needles distrustfully. “Whatever it was I did, I feel like a knitting needle to the eyeball is probably an excessively violent response.”

“He said you think we’re not friends.”

“Ah.” Grantaire sets his glass down deliberately and leans back in his chair. 

“Are we not friends?” Enjolras asks, like that’s something people can just  _say_  to each other, and Grantaire knows there’s no good way to answer this question, the same way he knows that Enjolras is not going to let it go.

“Are we?” he counters, falling back on familiar habits. When in doubt, deflect and derail.

Enjolras’ unhappy frown deepens. “This is because of the scarf thing.”

Grantaire scoffs, “It’s really not.” 

Except for how it kind of is. 

Enjolras brings his knitting everywhere. He knits at meetings, on the metro, on his lunch breaks, yarn trailing in bread crumbs. He’s knitted as long as Grantaire has known him, to the point where it’s barely a remarkable personality trait any more. It’s just another interesting quirk in a group of interesting and quirky people; Combeferre collects taxidermy, Bahorel has failed the bar five times, Joly always has the best weed, Enjolras likes to knit.

Enjolras knits blankets and shawls and gloves. He knits potholders and ear warmers and reusable cup cosies. This past winter he knitted a rainbow of scarves for all Les Amis and their compatriots.

All of them except Grantaire.

Every single one of their friends has an Enjolras Original or three. Even Pontmercy got a scarf, a comfy looking blue marl thing.

Grantaire has nothing.

It’s not surprising. Why would Enjolras waste time and money making something for someone he barely tolerates on a good day? Handmaking a gift is an act of love, and Enjolras has made it plain that when it comes to Grantaire, love is the last thing on his mind. 

It’d be easier to act like it didn’t bother him, like it wasn’t a viscerally painful reminder of exactly how Enjolras feels about him, if it wasn’t so glaringly obvious. 

Grantaire hadn’t been there when the scarves were distributed. He still doesn’t know if they all got together without him to give out gifts or if they were handed over personally, if Enjolras took the time to sit down with all his friends and present them with a tangible representation of how much he cares for them. 

A scarf, because Enjolras would never want the people he loves to be cold.

They wear them all the time. Enjolras is good at what he does, the scarves are beautifully made and wonderfully warm and soft. Grantaire had borrowed Cosette’s once, when she’d noticed him shivering as they smoked together out the back of the Corinthe. 

He hadn’t wanted to give it back, but he couldn’t keep it either. It wasn’t meant for him, that furtive moment of stolen warmth.

It’s not surprising that Courfeyrac would be the one to bring it up, but it is a little surprising that it took him this long to say something. The weather is getting warmer, it’ll be too hot for scarves in a couple of months. Grantaire has been looking forward to the summer and the excuse to ignore the visible evidence of how disliked he is.

Enjolras looks distressed and Grantaire can’t help but resent Courfeyrac a bit for forcing them into this uncomfortable confrontation. Enjolras might not like Grantaire - seems to actively hate him sometimes, not that it isn’t justified - but he’s a good person. If he thought he’d hurt someone’s feelings, whether or not he meant to, he’d be determined to set it right.

The pity curdles in Grantaire’s stomach.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, but Enjolras has a determined look in his eye and before Grantaire can get away he sits down at the table and pulls a mess of yarn out of his satchel. 

“Here,” he passes the needles to Grantaire, who takes them automatically, unsure of what’s happening. “I’m going to show you how to cast on.”

“What? Why?”

“Because,” Enjolras says in a steely tone, “it’s a useful skill to have.”

Grantaire looks incredulously at the needles he’s holding and the skein of soft grey wool clutched in Enjolras’ hands. “You want to teach me to knit.”

“Yes.”

“So- what. So I can make my own scarf?”

“Yes?” 

The flicker of insecurity on Enjolras’ face is enough to convince him to just roll with whatever surreality is happening right now. This is- a peace offering, perhaps? Enjolras trying to make things up to him. Grantaire will go along with it, assuage some of the unnecessary guilt he seems to be feeling, and everything will go back to normal.

“Alright.”

On the other side of the café Courfeyrac beams and waves at them both as Enjolras leans across the table, talking in a quietly serious voice about needle sizes and stitch types, and takes Grantaire’s hands in his own to adjust his grip on the needles.

 

So. They knit. They’re knitting buddies. It’s a thing.  


 

They start out meeting just once a week but as the days pass Grantaire finds himself being wound closer into Enjolras’ life, sitting next to him in quiet moments before ABC meetings to spool yarn together, meeting for lunch on park benches in the early spring sunshine to knit together, being invited over to his _apartment_ to work on their projects. It’s the strangest thing that’s happened to Grantaire in years. It’s startlingly domestic and dangerously enjoyable.

Knitting - Enjolras tells him one evening, when they’re side by side on Grantaire’s sagging but comfortable couch - is grounding. When he knits he can think clearly, the rhythm of the needles is soothing, it helps him focus. Grantaire can understand that, keeping his hands busy has always calmed him down.   
  
He’s never spent this much time around Enjolras before and the distraction is welcome, it smooths away the awkwardness he’d always imagined would be there without the company of their friends. They don’t argue when they’re knitting. They talk, but they don’t fight. Any time conversations drift too close to provocation there’s something to divert themselves with: a dropped stitch to catch, tension to unwind.  
  
The temporary truce lets them get to know each other in all the ways their animosity hadn’t allowed before. Enjolras is gentler with his guard down. Grantaire’s always known that he’s kind and funny and sort of a nerd, he’s seen him that way with their other friends, but it’s a totally different thing experiencing it for himself. Spending time with this Enjolras - tired and rumpled after a day at work, smiling and comfortable in the sanctity of his bedroom, sleep soft on a weekend morning with his glasses slipping down his nose - this is something he never thought he’d have and he covets it, takes each moment like an unearned blessing and hoards them away.

Enjolras’ sense of peace lulls him into a similar state. It’s relaxing. Grantaire is _relaxed_.  
  
He really should have known better.

“Fuck,” Enjolras heaves a frustrated sigh, holding what will eventually be a sweater up and squinting at it. “I’ve ruined it.”

They’re at Enjolras’ place again. Grantaire brought coffee and sandwiches for lunch with the aim of hanging out for an hour or so and is somehow still there at five pm, feet up on the coffee table, Enjolras’ knee digging into his thigh where he’s sat cross legged next to him.   
  
Grantaire finishes the row he’s working on and glances over to see what Enjolras has done. “You forgot to add stitches in your last two rows,” he points with his spare needle, “that’s why the selvage is messing with the pattern. Just unpick them and put the extras in at the end and it’ll be fine.”  
  
He turns back to his scarf.

It’s the absence of sound that makes him realise something’s wrong, only one set of needles clicking in the quiet room.  


Enjolras is staring at him with a look of dawning comprehension that threatens to darken into righteous fury.   
  
“How did you know that?”

“What?” Grantaire stalls, hands frozen in his lap.  


“You shouldn’t know how to do that.”   
  
Enjolras looks down at Grantaire’s scarf, the one he’s been working on for two months now. It’s not finished yet, he’s been going slowly, but what’s there is looking good.  
  
“I thought you’d picked it up quickly,” Enjolras says, still staring at the soft burgundy merino. “But you’re always good at anything you do, if you bother to try."

“Enjolras-”  


“You already know how to knit.”  


Grantaire sighs, caught out. “My grandmother taught me.”  


Something crumples in Enjolras’ face, hurt flickering behind his eyes before it’s quickly replaced by cool neutrality. “You could have told me. I wouldn’t have kept bothering you with this if I’d known.”

“You weren’t bothering me,” Grantaire says quietly.

A muscle tics in Enjolras’ jaw. “I suppose it must’ve been pretty funny, listening to me badly explain things you already know how to do. I don’t understand why you’d let it go on so long though.”

He shouldn’t have lied. Grantaire knows this, knew all along that at some point he would fuck up and this- exactly this situation- would be the result.

“We were getting along,” he says, a poor excuse. “I like spending time with you.”

There. Honesty. The horrible, ugly truth. He’d let Enjolras think he didn’t know how to do this to force him to spend time with him. Because he felt guilty for something that wasn’t his fault. Because Grantaire is an asshole.

Enjolras looks gutted. “You didn’t have to lie, we could’ve-” he trails off. They wouldn’t be here if Grantaire had told him he could already knit, and they both know it.

Grantaire watches the curtains flutter in the evening breeze coming in through the window and wonders if this is the last time he’ll ever be invited into Enjolras’ home. He’s grateful they’re out here, at least. Last week they’d been in Enjolras’ room, sat on his _bed_ , and Grantaire had been so distracted - his hands had shook so much, he’d dropped so many stitches - that Enjolras had asked him if he wasn’t feeling well, had touched the back of his hand to Grantaire's forehead in such a spontaneous moment of genuine care that Grantaire had eagerly taken the out and gone home. Running from something that was so close to what he wanted, but not quite enough.

He definitely doesn't feel well now. 

“This was a mistake,” Grantaire says slowly. “I should go.”

Enjolras has been sitting rigidly beside him but his hand snaps out and clasps his wrist when he goes to stand up.  
  
“Wait.” 

Grantaire holds himself perfectly still. Enjolras' fingers are like a brand against his skin.

“You thought I wouldn't want to spend time with you?”

“I mean, it's not like you ever have before.” 

Enjolras’ grip tightens before he lets go abruptly. “Courf was right,” he says to himself, frowning again.  
  
Grantaire catches himself reaching out to touch Enjolras as he retreats and forces his hands back to his lap. 

“Maybe I misinterpreted what was going on, with the knitting. You never- it’s not a big deal, okay? But I was pretty sure you hated me. I don’t blame you,” he hurries to add when Enjolras makes a wounded noise, “and I’m sorry I lied to you. But this has been nice, hasn’t it? Kind of?” the desperation in his voice makes him cringe. “We’ve been fighting less. It’s almost like we’re friends.”

That was supposed to be a joke, but he clearly doesn’t carry it off judging by the way Enjolras flinches.

“I should explain,” he says in a hollow voice. “About the scarves.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I do,” he snaps, fierce again. “I hurt you and it was selfish of me to just pretend like I didn’t notice. It was cruel.”

So he had known what he was doing. It was a deliberate exclusion, not just thoughtlessness. Grantaire's not sure if that's better or not. Either way, it's painful.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It _does_. Just, would you please listen?” Enjolras tugs on his hair the way he only does when he’s anxious or embarrassed. “There’s this superstition. I- you’ll think it’s stupid.”

A superstition. There’s only one superstition Grantaire knows of when it comes to knitting.

“The sweater curse?”

Enjolras buries his face in his hands, “I told you it was stupid.”  
  
This is, quite literally, the last thing Grantaire expected. Almost anything else would make more sense:  _I hate you and want you to suffer,_ _I thought you were allergic to wool_ ,  _I couldn't decide what colour to use_ ,  _I heard that sheep killed your entire family_. 

Maybe there's another curse, one where if you give someone something you knitted they read too much into it and get the wrong idea. Because Grantaire is definitely getting the wrong idea.

_Derail!_ His brain is screaming at him. _Deflect!_  
  
“You give everyone else things you’ve made.”  
  
Enjolras curls further into himself. “It’s different.”  
  
Different. It’s _different_. The scarves Enjolras had laboured over for all of their friends, the bright squashy cushions on Jehan’s bed, Bossuet’s mismatched socks, the beanie Feuilly lives in all year round - Enjolras had knitted these things for their friends with no concern that the gift would be misinterpreted.

No fear that he’d lose the person he gave them to. 

It's possible that Grantaire has been looking at this situation all wrong. Maybe he can unpick this too, work his way back to when things made sense. Untangle some of these knots. The metaphor is getting away from him.  
  
Grantaire’s still holding onto his scarf, the wool all crumpled up where he’s gripping it too tightly. He puts it down carefully on the table. Clears his throat.  
  
“You know. Some people think that, uh. That the curse is really about how someone puts all this time and energy into making something for someone they care about. And how the person it’s supposed to be for doesn’t appreciate what it means, just takes for granted that they worked so hard on something meaningful and treats it like it’s nothing. It ruins relationships-” and Grantaire is proud of how his voice doesn’t crack on that word, “because it shows how unbalanced they are. How one person is more invested than the other.”

“We're not- we don't have a relationship.”  
  
Ouch. Maybe not then. “Yeah. I'm aware.”  
  
“No, you don't understand. I thought if you made something yourself, if you took the time to learn how much goes into it- what it _means_ to me… but it didn’t mean anything to you.” Enjolras sounds so sad. “You were just doing this because-”  
  
“Because I wanted an excuse to be around you,” Grantaire interrupts. “Enjolras, I know how to knit but I’ve been coming to you for lessons for weeks, because just getting to be _near_ you-” he cuts himself off, drags his fingers through his hair. “Who do you think this scarf is for? Did you really think I was making it for myself? You know red’s not my colour.”

“What?”

Enjolras looks confused but _hopeful_ , of all things, and Grantaire's halfway through another terrible knitting metaphor in his head - clumsy imagery about weaving individual strands together to make something beautiful and strong, not his best work - when he thinks, fuck it.

He says, “Hey, please don't stab me for this,” because Enjolras is still holding his needles, and then he reaches across the space between them, slides his fingertips delicately across Enjolras' jaw, brushes a loose curl of hair away from his cheek, and kisses him.

Enjolras makes a soft, startled sound against Grantaire’s mouth. He freezes for a moment - long enough that panic starts to seep into the edges of Grantaire’s awareness - and then he’s moving, knitting clattering to the floor as he crawls across the seat and into Grantaire’s lap.  
  
Once he’s there it’s like he can’t stop moving, can’t stop _touching_ , hands coming up to push into Grantaire’s hair, tugging at the neck of his t-shirt, slipping underneath to thumb along one collarbone. Enjolras kisses the same way he fights, with singular, intoxicating, overwhelming passion. Grantaire gets his hands around Enjolras’ hips, callused palms against his bare skin where his shirt’s ridden up. He shudders when Enjolras makes another noise, lower this time, and bites at his lower lip.  
  
“Oh,” Enjolras gasps when they part, staying close enough that Grantaire can feel him breathing, see the thrum of his pulse in his throat, “I am going to knit you so many sweaters.”

Grantaire laughs, bright and joyful in his surprise, and Enjolras smiles back at him, fingers laced around the back of his neck, and leans in to kiss him again.   


 


End file.
